


world turned upside down (now there's no way out)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, John Garrett is the Clairvoyant, Project Centipede (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: It's the seventh interview Jemma's had with a project that wants her genius, but this time is a little different. Unlike the other projects, Centipede actually has something interesting to offer.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 13
Kudos: 80





	world turned upside down (now there's no way out)

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! Week FORTY THREE!!! Yes, that means there are NINE WEEKS LEFT. Less than TEN FICS and this challenge will be DONE. I'm so ready for that blissful day, y'all.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Dr. Simmons. Dr. Simmons _._ ”

It’s twenty five percent actual interest in the slide before her and seventy five percent artifice that keeps Jemma’s eyes fixed on her microscope. She knows precisely why her handler/personal assistant/bodyguard wants her attention, and she isn’t looking forward to it at all.

“ _Dr. Simmons!_ ”

Unfortunately, Markham is paid to be persistent. For now, he’s only shouting, but he’s not at all above yanking her microscope away, heedless of the possible damage, if he deems it necessary. So, with a sigh, she sits back and swivels her stool to face her latest guests.

There’s Markham, of course, and beside him is a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a slightly unsettling grin. Not unsettling enough to hold Jemma’s attention for long, however—she’s far more interested in the tall, handsome man trailing behind him.

“What, Markham?” she asks without taking her eyes off the visitor. He smiles back at her, slow and charming.

“Your three o’clock interview, Dr. Simmons,” Markham says, voice calm and even. One would never know he was just shouting. “The Clairvoyant.”

The name hits her like an electric jolt, physically shocking her and forcing her eyes away from their fixation. It also startles all of the emotion out of her; even to her own ears, her echo of the name sounds blank. “The Clairvoyant?”

“Yes,” Markham says patiently. “The Clairvoyant. He’s head of the Cen—”

“The Centipede project,” she says over him. “Yes, I remember.”

In his stoic way, he looks quite surprised. (Which is to say, one of his eyebrows raises a tiny fraction of a millimeter.) An understandable reaction—this is the seventh such ‘interview’ she’s held this week, and the first time she’s remembered any of the projects under consideration off the top of her head.

The Clairvoyant must have been warned of her general disinterest, by gossip if not by Markham, because he beams smugly at her.

“Caught your interest, did we?” he asks.

“Super soldiers, wasn’t it?” She pushes to her feet and circles her lab bench. “You took every element known to create enhanced humans and threw them all in a blender.” Solely for something to do with her hands, she lifts her tablet. “Yes, I remember it. It was…inelegant.”

The Clairvoyant’s smile doesn’t fade. “We’re not the most sophisticated operation, it’s true. Which is why I’m looking for a woman of your reputation to come class things up a bit. Interested?”

The best way to survive Hydra, Jemma’s found, is to wear her arrogance like a cloak. If she shoves her superiority in people’s faces, they’re too blinded to see what lies beneath it.

She wraps that arrogance around herself now.

“It’s certainly the least boring puzzle I’ve been offered so far,” she says, “but that hardly makes it _interesting_. Super soldiers have been done before, Mr. Clairvoyant.”

The Clairvoyant studies her for a long moment. Jemma steels her spine.

“I heard you sent Adams out of here crying,” he says, apropos of nothing.

Reflexively, she looks to Markham.

“Yesterday,” he reminds her, “eleven-thirty. With the glasses.”

“Oh, him,” she says dismissively. “He wanted my assistance with _brainwashing_. The nerve.”

“So.” The Clairvoyant rocks back on his heels. “Super soldiers don’t interest you, brainwashing doesn’t interest you—and I know you gave Wheeler the boot, too, so truth serum’s also a no-go. What _does_ interest you, Dr. Simmons?”

For a moment, Jemma’s mind races. She looks at her tablet to avoid looking elsewhere.

It’s only a few (rapid) heartbeats before a plan slots neatly into place. She is a genius, after all—and this is an opportunity she never, in her wildest dreams, expected to be handed.

Setting her tablet aside, she smiles pleasantly at the Clairvoyant.

“Payment,” she says simply.

The Clairvoyant laughs. “Well, now, I can certainly respect that! What’s the going rate for a mad genius these days, huh? One million, two—?”

She cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

“I’m not interested in money, Mr. Clairvoyant,” she clarifies. “Hydra’s salary is quite generous, as you should know.”

“True enough,” he says genially. “What did you have in mind, then?”

“You’ll want me to work in your lab, I presume?” she asks. “For security reasons?”

“Of course,” he says. “Nothing personal, you understand.”

“Mm.” Jemma lets her eyes wander. “You want me to pack up and move—away from my own lab, my own quarters, my own…entertainments. I’ll get bored.” Eyes lingering on lovely cheekbones and broad shoulders, she concludes, “My price is your muscle.”

He chuckles lewdly. “You want Grant?”

Dragging her gaze away from _Grant’s_ , she nods. “For the duration of my work on your project. I want full use of him.”

“Done,” the Clairvoyant says at once—tellingly, without so much as glancing at the man in question. And though he does hesitate after speaking, it proves to have nothing to do with awareness his bodyguard might resent being traded away like a toy. “Only…I heard about what happened to good ol’ Fitz.”

The mention—and the memories it brings to mind—leaves her cold. Perhaps that tells in her gaze, because the Clairvoyant raises his hands placatingly.

“No offense,” he adds. “I’m not criticizing. I just wanna make sure I’ll get my man back in one piece.”

“You will,” she says, voice as icy as the blood running through her veins. “Provided he remembers his place.”

“Oh, he’s good at that,” the Clairvoyant assures her. “He’ll stay in line. So do we have a deal?”

“We do,” she confirms.

“Excellent!” The Clairvoyant claps his hands and then, finally, turns to regard the man he’s just offered up as payment. “That’s not a problem, is it, son?”

“Not at all,” he says smoothly. His eyes slip past the Clairvoyant’s to meet hers once more; Jemma has to hold back a shiver. “In fact, why don’t I give the good doctor a sample while you get the transfer arranged with Markham here?”

“Works for me,” the Clairvoyant says. “Doc?”

Jemma beams. Perhaps too brightly, if the cautious way Markham eyes her is any indication. Oh well.

“What a marvelous idea,” she says. “My quarters are just upstairs.”

He extends an arm back in the direction of the lifts. “Lead the way.”

\---

Jemma manages to keep up her cool façade for the entire journey to her quarters. As soon as the door closes behind them, however, she drops all pretense at calm and throws herself at Ward in a desperate hug.

“I am _so glad_ to see you,” she nearly sobs into his shirt.

He hugs her back easily enough, but remains tense, which puzzles her—at least until he leans down to breathe, “Should we really talk about this here?” into her hair.

“Right, sorry, I should have warned you.” She also should be letting him go, but after what she’s been through of late, she really can’t find it in her to do so. As far as she’s concerned, she won’t be leaving his arms until he gives some sign of discomfort. “I have sonic protocols for privacy. No video and no audio recordings. Perks of being one of Hydra’s greatest minds.”

At that, the tension goes out of him. “In that case, I’m glad to see you, too. Especially if you have literally any idea how the hell we got here or how to get home.”

Jemma laughs, more out of relief than amusement. It’s been ten days since she landed in this awful place—this twisted, Bizarro universe in which, apparently, everyone is _evil_ —and she was beginning to think she’d never get to hear Ward’s grumpy _why haven’t you scienced our way out of this yet_ tone ever again.

“As to our journey here, I presume it’s something to do with the 084 we were transporting,” she says. “I did warn you the containment wasn’t entirely secure.”

Still held to his chest as she is, she can’t see his eyeroll—but then, she doesn’t truly need to. It’s practically audible.

“Yeah, well, the alternative was getting _shot_ , so…”

“I’m not blaming you,” she assures him. “I’m just…providing an explanation, as requested.”

“084 travel makes as much sense as anything else,” he acknowledges. “How about the other half?”

“ _That_ , I’m not certain about,” she admits. “But…assuming this is some form of parallel universe and not a shared delusion…perhaps if we visited Calais, we’d find this universe’s version of the 084, which could in turn take us home?”

It’s pure conjecture, but it’s the best she’s been able to come up with, stranded in Hydra as she’s been.

“It’s worth a shot,” he agrees, and then hesitates. “Getting to Calais might be tricky, though.”

“The Clairvoyant doesn’t give you much freedom?” she guesses, and distracts herself with it. “Speaking of which…you don’t suppose he’s the Clairvoyant in our world as well, do you?”

It would make a wonderful silver lining to this mess if it handed them the answers to the mysteries behind Centipede—but Ward sighs.

“I sure hope not,” he says frankly. “That’s John Garrett, my SO.”

Oh, dear. So much for the silver lining. “Ah.”

“I’ll have some hard questions for him when we get home,” he says, “don’t get me wrong. But I really don’t think he’s capable of everything the Clairvoyant’s done.”

“I see.” For his sake, she hopes he’s correct—she’s heard him speak of his SO before, though never by name, and knows the two of them are close. She’s certain it would devastate him should Garrett prove to be a traitor in their universe, as well.

Still, for the sake of everyone who’s suffered at Centipede’s hands…

“And no,” he adds, “he’s been keeping me close. Closer after this, I’m guessing—since I’m your _payment_.”

His tone is teasing, not annoyed, but it still leaves Jemma abruptly embarrassed by her spur-of-the-moment plan.

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally—reluctantly—pulling back. “I just wanted to make sure we weren’t separated again—and I needed an excuse to accept his offer when I’ve rejected all the others.”

“Hey, hey, no.” Ward catches her by the shoulders and holds her in place, looking down at her with a lovely, earnest frown. “It was a great idea, Simmons, very quick thinking. And hey, for someone who can’t lie, you pulled off the mad scientist thing pretty well.”

Jemma smiles, a little smug despite herself.

“Thank you!” she says. “I find it helps to remember how I’m automatically superior to anyone who willingly works for _Hydra_.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that was a shock, huh?”

“Quite,” she agrees. She has no idea what went so wrong in this universe that Hydra is still a factor, but she’s spent the last ten days resenting it mightily.

“But we’ve gotten off topic,” he says. “What I was saying was, it’s not gonna be easy to get to Calais. Maybe if…”

“What?” she asks when he trails off. “If what?”

He sighs and looks away. “Maybe we should sit down for this.”

“Okay,” she says, a tad uncertainly, and follows him over to the couch. “Why do we need to sit down?”

Ward hesitates, and then takes her hands in his. Despite the circumstances—despite how inappropriate it feels, given his sudden solemn turn—Jemma can’t help that it gives her a bit of a thrill. She’s been hopelessly in love with him for _months_ , and to have him here now, so close, _holding her hands_ …it hits her with a girlish, giddy sort of rush.

“Simmons,” he says. “I’m the team specialist. You know what that means?”

“You assess risks and protect us,” she says. “But what does that have to do—”

He cuts her off with a gentle squeeze of her hands. “It means that right now, you are my _only_ priority. Getting you home, keeping you safe, that’s all that matters.” He pauses deliberately. “Even if it happens at this universe’s expense.”

Jemma…does not know what to say to that.

“It might sound heartless,” he continues, “but I can’t afford to think of these people as innocents. As far as I’m concerned, they’re enemy agents standing between us and our way home. All of them.”

Well. That’s…dire.

“Why are you saying this?” she asks.

“Because…” He hesitates. “Because it might be that the easiest, safest way to get home is for you to figure out the Centipede serum for John. Wait,” he says when she opens her mouth, “hear me out.”

She didn’t truly know what to say, in any case. Mutely, she nods her acquiescence.

“However long it takes you to solve the problem,” he says, “we can spend pretending to get closer. Play it up like you wanted me for entertainment, but you’re starting to feel something for me. By the time you’re done with Centipede, we can be dating. Then, I’ll use the excuse of taking you on a little celebratory vacation to get us to Calais. John’ll be too thrilled to have his serum to care where or why we’re going.”

It certainly _sounds_ feasible enough, and she trusts Ward to know his own SO and how he’ll react. Even so…

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he adds softly, “expecting you to work for Centipede. And I couldn’t ask too many questions without making John suspicious, so I don’t even know what he plans to do with the serum once it’s done.” He squeezes her hands again; perhaps he can feel how they’ve gone cold. “I know it’s not in your nature to put your own safety above anyone else’s—”

Jemma jerks her hands out of his. Not because she particularly _wants_ to, but because she feels she must. She can’t look at him when she says, “Don’t be so sure.”

She can tell she startles him with her reaction. His, “Simmons?” is unusually tentative.

If they’re going to spend any amount of time with each other, he’s likely to hear the story eventually. Better he hear it from her.

“You heard Garrett mention Fitz?” she asks.

He shifts a little closer to her. “I did.”

“The Jemma I replaced and the Fitz in this universe were—” she swallows—“intimate. He knew at once that I wasn’t her.” She pauses for a deep breath, fighting nausea and memory both. “He was going to call the guards. Have me interrogated. Tortured, probably. And there were a number of useful chemicals at hand, so I—I attacked him.” Tears are welling up with the memories (the way he stumbled and fell, his greying skin, his voice choking out her name—), and she dashes them impatiently away. “He’s in a coma. The hypoxia—they aren’t sure whether he’ll ever wake.”

Her eyes are fixed so determinedly on the coffee table, it takes her entirely by surprise when Ward wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he says, “but I’m not sorry you did it. And I don’t blame you for it at all.” His arm tightens. “Just remember: there’s a Fitz in our universe who’d be devastated to lose you. You know he wouldn’t begrudge you attacking his evil twin if it meant you making it home.”

It’s such a bizarre thing to say, Jemma has to laugh—a bit tearfully, but even so. Warmed by Ward’s comfort (and body heat), she rests her head on his shoulder, shoves the memory of evil Fitz away, and lets herself consider his plan.

The truth is, she’s already made any number of moral compromises. She’s refused every new project offered to her this week (Hydra’s attempt to keep her on side, she imagines, finding new work to replace her partnership with Fitz), but she’s kept on with the work her parallel self had underway when she arrived. Even putting aside what she did to Fitz, she’s spent several days now with her genius turned to Hydra’s use.

How many people in this universe will suffer for what she’s done? How many more will suffer if she helps Centipede?

And is it really that much worse than anything her parallel self had already done?

If so, is it sufficiently worse to justify stranding not only herself, but _Ward_ , in this universe? Where they’ll be forced to either live their lives on the run or continue as they are, cornered into using their respective skills for Hydra’s so-called _glory_?

“You don’t have to decide right away,” Ward offers as the silence stretches out. “We can stall for at least a couple days—getting you moved to John’s base, getting you settled in the labs there, and you’ll want to look over what his scientists have already done for the project, right?”

“No,” she says, suddenly resolved. “I mean, yes, we could stall. But there’s no need to.” She takes a deep breath. “The sooner we can get home, the better. I’ll perfect the serum for him.”

A little bit of tension she hadn’t realized was there ekes out of Ward. Oh, he _was_ worried about her reaction to his plan, wasn’t he? Poor thing.

“Okay,” he says. “Good.” He pauses. “I mean, not _good_ , but—”

“I know what you meant,” she assures him, patting his knee. “It’s nice to have a plan—and a potential way home. Assuming we can find the 084 in Calais…and that it will work as we hope and send us home and not, for example, to another universe enti—”

“Okay,” he says, a bit loudly, before she can spiral any further down that thought. “There’s just one more thing, then.”

“Oh?” she asks.

“This is kind of awkward,” he says, well, awkwardly. “And I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of creep trying to take advantage of the situation. But if we’re gonna pretend to be dating, we need to be, uh, comfortable with each other.”

Oh. _Oh_. “I see,” she says, feeling more than a little awkward herself.

“I don’t want to force you into anything—”

“No,” she interrupts, “no, you’re right, of course. And if anything, _I’m_ the one forcing _you_. It was my idea to ask for you as _payment_ , after all.” And what she thinks of this version of his SO for _accepting the offer_ , well, that can be saved for another day. “I don’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable.”

He smiles, just a little. It’s still enough to make her heart flutter.

“You won’t,” he promises. “But it might be better to, uh…”

“Practice?” she suggests when he falters. He’s so concerned with offending or frightening her; it’s adorable. And endearing. (She doesn’t believe this will help her fight her feelings for him at _all_.) “So it looks natural if we have to, for instance, kiss in public?”

Ward looks charmingly relieved. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Very well, then.” She shifts to face him, pulling one knee up onto the couch to sit more comfortably. “Kiss me.”

“You’re sure?” he checks.

“Positive,” she affirms. “As long as you are.”

He laughs. “I’m positive, too.”

“Then we’re both positive,” she says. “So go ahead.”

She’s quite proud of how unconcerned she sounds, how casual and calm her voice comes out. This week has done wonders for her skill in deception. She doesn’t believe it’s at all obvious that she’s fighting the urge to squeal like a preteen girl.

She _doesn’t_ quite manage to hide her shudder when he cups her face, unfortunately, but hopefully he’ll put it down to nerves and not her mortifyingly strong crush on him.

“Still okay?” he asks lowly, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. Jemma nearly whimpers.

“Still okay,” she confirms breathlessly.

“Okay,” he says, and leans in.

For all his hesitation, his mouth is sure and firm against hers. His fingers are equally sure, winding their way into her hair to cradle the base of her skull. It’s a brief kiss, warm but mostly chaste, and over far too soon.

It’s still one of the best she’s ever had.

Perhaps she’s found a silver lining to this mess after all.


End file.
